


The Ghost and Mr. Lewis

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Friendship/Love, Ghosts, Lewis Fright Fest 2014, M/M, Sweet, romantic fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 06:16:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2537261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After mourning his wife for a decade, Lewis returns to Oxford. There's just one problem with his flat: it's haunted by the previous occupant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost and Mr. Lewis

**Author's Note:**

> Heartfelt thanks to wendymr for Brit-picking, correcting my embarrassing punctuation errors, and making suggestions that strengthened the story. Thanks also to small_hobbit for read-through and Brit-pic. 
> 
> Written for the Lewis Fright Fest Challenge 2014.  
> Loosely inspired by the 1947 movie: "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir"

“I always seem to have problems with the lock.” Jean Innocent jiggled the key and gave the door a shove with her shoulder. “Almost like it doesn’t want to be let.”

“You said your husband’s the property agent?” Lewis took the key from her and lifted the handle of the door, opening it to the small flat easily.

“We’ve had a succession of coppers stay here, actually.” She smiled at him, nervously tugging at an earlobe. “Didn’t seem to suit. Still, it might work for you, seeing as you’re a retired police officer.” She said this rather loudly, smiling brightly.

He nodded, non-committal. The flat was clean, furnished in a sparse, modern way. Nice sofa, table. Light colors, airy. There was a strange stone head mounted on an empty bookcase. “One of the gargoyles.”

“I’m so pleased you recognized it—not many people do! Yes, it’s rather special. We haven’t been able to find a way to get it down, so it comes with the place.” She gestured at the windows. “Plenty of light, yet private. Uh…the kitchen is here.”

“You sound like a sales agent rather than the Chief Super.”

She sighed, her eyes meeting his. “It’s been vacant for a few years now, and while we don’t want to put it on the market, we may have to. I’d rather let it than let it go,” she said quietly. “Seems to be a problem finding the right tenant, despite offering it to police officers."

Lewis inhaled, and the sharp smell of a cigarette assailed his nostrils. “There’s your problem. Smoker lived here.”

She rushed to the window, opening it. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Perhaps someone walking through the street outside,” she said, her eyes casting about nervously.

It seemed chilly suddenly in the room. “Bit of a draught.”

“Welcome, though, in the summer months. Let me show you the bedroom, through here.” She waved a hand. The room was large. “Newer orthopedic mattress. Everything is very clean. The previous owner was as fastidious as a cat. Speaking of which, there is a stray that hangs about. Are you allergic?”

“No, I love cats. Haven’t had one in years.” He opened the wardrobe door. “Lots of space here.” He wandered back into the living room. “Nice. Lots of bookshelves.”

“Are you a reader, Mr. Lewis?”

“Well, I hope to be more of a writer.”

A sound like a chuckle reverberated through the flat. “What’s that?”

She put a hand to her forehead. “Water pressure, possibly. Jericho’s an older part of town. Pipes. You’re familiar with Oxford, I know.” He voice rose in volume, again, as if addressing the woodwork. “Sergeant to the legendary DCI Morse before becoming a DI. Before my time, but I hear he was an interesting fellow—brilliant detective.”

“Learned a lot from him. Hope to put some of the more interesting cases in a textbook now that I’m, erm, semi-retired.”

She set her handbag on the breakfast counter. “You do know that we have no hesitation taking you back now that your secondment is over.”

“I know. Appreciate it. I ---“ He sighed. “—I don’t have it in me anymore, that’s all.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. I understand there are still no leads in the case?”

“None. And after all this time—“ He shook his head slightly. “—I don’t expect any. Need to move on, though. Have to find a place to live. This has a spare room?”

“Yes.” She led him down the short hall. “Here. Makes a lovely office.”

“I’ll probably keep it as a guest room. My grandson will be spending time with me occasionally.” As he said the words, he realized that the room had become very cold. “Just turned five—magical age, that.”

“Yes. I’m not sure how suitable this flat would be for a child, visiting.”

“He’d love the stone head. Loves coming to Oxford. Loves the bells, he does. Don’t have much of that in Manchester.”

The air in the room seem to warm, and there was now a fresh green scent flowing through the air, as if someone, somewhere, was mowing grass. “You said there was a bit of a garden.”

“Well, it really isn’t much. More pots along the doorstep and a few perennials along the back. No garage, unfortunately.”

He went outside. The potted plants had gone to seed, but the shrubs and flowers were still hardy, if unkempt. Weeds pushed apart the paving stones that led around the side of the house. A fluffy grey haired tabby regarded him curiously. No collar. Had that ‘I’m willing to be friends if you have food’ look about it. “You must be the stray.” He stretched out a hand, waiting. Listening to Innocent talking loudly in the flat.

“I think this is a good fit and the best you’re likely to get. You need to hold on to this one,” Jean insisted, standing in the main room.

 _Must be talking on her mobile,_ Lewis thought. He glanced in the window, just as the cat rubbed against his ankles. Jean Innocent stood in the center of the living room, hands on her hips. Her mobile was on the breakfast counter next to her bag. Lewis glanced at the cat and then up again to see the mobile falling to the floor, though Innocent was easily several feet away.

“Honestly,” she muttered, hurrying to pick it up. “These childish pranks.” She shook her head slightly and huffed a sigh.

“I think I found the cat,” Lewis said, coming into the kitchen. “Is he allowed inside?”

“No, I—“

Lewis tugged on the door, which seemed to be stuck open. The cat sauntered in and sat expectantly in the kitchen, waiting.

Innocent cleared her throat, staring at the floor.

“Door sticks,” said Lewis. “Pipes making noise. No garage.”

“Not to mention having to feed the neighborhood stray. You’d like the rent reduced…?”

“A bit, yeah. No storage, mostly.”

“Actually, there’s a half-shed of sorts alongside the back.” She went outside to a utility door. A spacious storage shed held a neat stack of boxes. “I’ll have these moved, of course.”

“They belong to the previous owner?”

She nodded, as if at a loss.

“Fine to leave them. I’ll add mine to the lot and we’ll see how it goes.”

She smiled warmly. “Thank you. I’m not sure what we would have done with them. Old school papers, books.”

“An academic, then.”

“A police officer.”

“Ah. And you can’t tell me…”

“Rather not. You understand. Confidentiality.”

He nodded. “So. Papers to sign?”

++++

“It’s in Jericho, the old part of town.” He was speaking to his daughter Lyn on his mobile as he unpacked the few things he’d brought with him from the BVI. He added hangers to the list of things he’d have to get at Tesco. “Nice place. Furnished—a bit modern for me tastes. Stereo’s even got a record player.”

“Must have been an older officer—someone like Morse.”

“Must have been. Can’t see someone like Morse living with IKEA, though.”

Pause.

“Dad. You know you could move up here. You don’t have to live with us.”

He dropped to the edge of the bed. “Aw, pet.” He stared at his hand on his knee, the tremor becoming more noticeable. He needed a drink. He was way behind schedule. He glanced out the window, the blinds half-closed against the afternoon sun. Usually he was on his third round by now. Worse thing in the world, detoxing. He was glad the room was cold—he was sweating. Still had to go out, buy bedding, cat food. “Oh, tell Jack I have a cat. Came with the place.”

“And the cat’s name is…”

“Um. Monty.”

There was a clatter from the kitchen. He got up quickly, thinking the cat had got into one of the cupboards. Everything was still. He glanced outside. The cat—Monty—was stretched out on the doorstep. _Guard duty. Odd. How did he get out?_

_Maybe the place was settling. Doors opening and closing._

_Bad pipes, cold air. Hope I stay long enough for Jack to visit. Hate to have to leave the place before I have a chance to show him that strange stone head._

Lyn was going on about work and the difficulty scheduling shifts with Jack now in school. “I thought it would be easier, you know, but it isn’t. The school is always on me about one thing or another and between that and work—“

Just like her mum—he could hear it in her voice. He could make everything better if he’d just come up there and live close by. And soon he’d be seeing Jack a lot. More than a lot. Which was fine with him, but he didn’t want to see her working so much. If Jack would keep her at home so that she could get some time away from the stress of hospital work, that was a good thing, wasn’t it?

He rang off, saying he needed to get out before the traffic got bad. He did, but it was more than that.

He really, really needed a drink.

++++

“Drinking won’t bring her back.” The man sitting across from him crossed his long legs and tented his fingertips. His voice was deep, posh. He wore a light grey suit and a pink tie.

Lewis screwed his eyes shut. _What the bloody hell?_ Was he imagining a counselor? Pink elephants, he could see. This was not a pink elephant.

“Not a counselor,” said the man. He had blond hair. His blue eyes were worried.

“Didn’t say you were,” Lewis said, carefully. He poured another drink and set the bottle gingerly on the coffee table. “What are you, then? Figment of my imagination?” He managed to get his mouth around the word without too much trouble. _That’s what comes of being a long time drunk,_ he thought. _You get better at hiding the tells. Hardly ever slur, could probably even drive, if I had to._

“I’d keep you from getting into your car,” the man across from him warned. “You’d never be able to find your keys.”

“Know exactly where they are.”

“Doubt it,” said the man calmly.

Lewis felt in his pockets. He stood up, better able to see the kitchen counter. “What the hell did you do with my keys?” He took a step, his foot catching on the leg of the coffee table. He pitched forward, landing on the floor. “Aw, Christ.”

“Sure you want to sleep there?”

Lewis closed his eyes. The room spun behind his eyelids. “Go away,” he muttered into the carpet.

“Can’t,” replied the man, fading away.

++++

Nothing was where he expected it to be. The kettle was in the back of the cupboard. The tea was on the wrong shelf. _Need to get sugar in. Can’t find a bloody thing._

He filled the kettle, plugged it in. He added aspirin to his list. His head was pounding. _Sugar. Instant coffee._

He got down a cup, put in a tea bag. _Have to get regular tea, none of this fancy stuff._ He picked up his pen.

The word ‘instant’ was crossed off his list. It read ‘coffee.’

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he saw the sugar right in front of him.

He poured water for tea and added a spoonful of sugar.

“Me body does strange things now that I’m older,” he told Monty, who was watching him. The cat yawned and walked out of the kitchen, pausing at the door way to glance up at some imagined dust mote.

He took his coffee into the living room, sitting on the couch as he had the night before. He clicked on the telly, looking for morning news.

He didn’t want to think about the man who had appeared sitting across from him the night before. _Hallucination. That was what it was._ All the time he’d been drinking in the islands and he’d never experienced anything quite like that.

All the more reason to quit.

It had been so real. Nothing like that time he’d got so drunk he stripped off his clothes, and waded into the surf hoping the waves would carry him away. Woke next morning, face down in the sand being poked by a dog. Bum so red he couldn’t sit down for days.

“Really?” said a voice coming from the center of the room. Cigarette smoke stained the air in the flat.

Startled, Lewis leaned forward, coffee spilling on his jeans. “Dammit,” he muttered. _Must be coming from outside. Strange acoustics in these older buildings._ He settled back, thumbing the remote.

Watched the news for a few minutes and then, as it went to an advert, he checked to see what else was on. There was a morning talk show, more news, and a documentary on religion in Shakespeare. He punched at the remote ineffectually. Wouldn’t budge. Hadn’t given a thought to buying batteries—have to add that to the list. He walked over to the set, which had no buttons of any sort—one of those modern flat screens. The program host droned on in a high nasal voice, and Lewis, frustrated with trying to find something to turn it off with, reached behind, followed the cord, and pulled the socket from the wall.

The program continued.

He stared at the end of the plug, following the cord from the plug in his hand all the way to the back of the television. _There was no way it could be working. None._

_Oh, unless. It had to have batteries._

Even as he had that thought, the television set clicked off.

He left it unplugged and went to write down another thing on his new list of things to get at Tesco.

Batteries.

He felt, rather than heard, the soft sigh beside him. A sad, defeated sound.

He wondered, for a moment, if he had made that sound without realizing it. He certainly felt that way. Sad. Defeated. Tied to life, though he wanted to leave it. Missing Val. Missing his family. Missing parts of himself.

Well. He was going to change. Today. Right now, in fact. First, he was going to get rid of that cigarette smell…

He went into the small bathroom. Air freshener. He sprayed it wildly in a great arc in the living room and was surprised to see the image of a man outlined against the mist. He sprayed some more.

The center of the mist coughed. Lewis sprayed more, systematically covering the room with the spray until the can was empty.

“I must be going out of my mind,” he huffed. Then he coughed. He saw his keys on the counter--had they been there before? He grabbed them and headed for the door. “Must be losing my bloody mind.”

“Me too,” the center of the room answered.

++++

Lewis stopped at the cemetery, flowers in hand. Had been two, no, three days ago. _Val hasn’t got this many flowers since our courting days,_ he marveled.

“Our Lyn is trying to convince me to—“ He stopped, aware of a figure in a long dark coat standing some distance away, head respectfully bowed, hands clasped before him. The tall man had blond hair like the visitor in his imagination.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Anyhow, I can’t go back up there, can’t even have Jack down here, can’t get me life back, pet, till I get this monkey off me back.” His hand trembled as he reached for the headstone.

“You don’t need a drink.” The voice came into his head, low, deep, a posh accent.

Lewis’ head jerked up. The tall man had vanished.

He wasn’t gone. No, Lewis had been looking right at him when he simply blinked out of sight.

If he didn’t need a drink before, he certainly needed one now.

++++

“This is counterproductive,” the man sitting across from him said. Tonight he was more informally dressed: jeans, a long-sleeved shirt. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. “I want to help.”

“Not sure if I can be helped,” Lewis murmured. “Seeing things. First step in dementia, that.” He opened one eye. “Wish you were a pink elephant.”

The man smiled slightly, a faint upward tilt at the corner of his mouth. “I wish I was a pink elephant, too.”

“What are you?”

“Trapped.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“A philosopher.”

“All coppers are. Have to be. Good, evil. Death. So much death.”

“See a lot of death, do you?” There was a slight edge to the voice. There was distant music in the room, a familiar piece. The smell of something burning. “Tell me what you know about death, Robbie Lewis.”

“When Val died, a little of me died with her.” Lewis’ eyes filled with tears. “I want to die. I can’t bear what I’ve become without her. I’d rather—I wish I was—“

The room plunged into silent darkness, the smell of smoke suddenly gone. “No, you don’t. Never wish that, Lewis. Never.”

++++

Lewis made a mark on the whiskey label bottle. _Not an alcoholic._ He wouldn’t drink past this mark. He’d already made several other marks. _There._ He would stop drinking right there.

“Do you think that will help?”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” He sipped his drink slowly. _Have to make it last._

“Nope. I’m staying here.” The man sitting across from him folded his hands across his stomach.

Lewis leaned forward and leaned back as he sat on the edge of the couch. His body in motion, rocking back and forth, staring at the bottle. Close. Far away. Close. Far away. Close. Tears pricked his eyes. _If Val was here, I wouldn’t be like this._

“What would Val say if she saw you like this?”

“Don’t—don’t you dare! You! Never mention her name, never—never say her name! Not a word, not one bloody word! Are you keeping Val from coming to me? Is that it?”

“No.”

Lewis rocked backward and forward. Close. Far away. Close. Far away. Close. He picked up his glass and drained it. He made another little mark on the bottle.

“Why did you come back to Oxford?”

“Ten years since Val died in London. Too hard to run a bloody hit and run investigation from the BVI.” Lewis leaned back. Studied the bottle. Sighed. “Lyn was concerned about police pension reform. Said I needed to come home before I turned 60.”

“You just made it. Might have gone to London instead.”

“This is close enough. When I’m ready, I can take a part time job at the nick without worrying about my pension.” Lewis stared at the other man. “Are you in Hell, is that why you’re here?”

“Feels like it, when you act like this.”

Lewis’ chest hurt. He was miserable and drunk and this was too damn much. His breath caught in his throat. “I can be good. I’ll be good.” He addressed the corners of the room, hoping that Val would materialize and this man would go away. He rocked back and forth. Close. Far away. Close. “I thought, if I came back to Oxford that she’d come back to me. Can you tell her I can be good?”

“It doesn’t work that way.” The man got up. He pulled a blanket from the back of the couch and arranged it around Lewis. Then he sat beside him.

“What are you good for, then?” Tears streaked down Lewis’ cheeks. “What the bloody hell are you good for? I don’t need a nursemaid.” Lewis pulled the blanket closer. _It was cold. Val hated the cold. She was always turning up the heat._

“You have to go away,” Lewis told the man. “It’s too cold here for Val. She won’t come if you’re here.” Lewis poured another glass. _Just to warm up._ He made another mark on the bottle.

“That’s useless.”

“Is it? I’ve got it under control. Leave me alone.” Lewis reached for the bottle.

“The bottle’s empty, Robbie.”

Lewis stared at the empty bottle and dropped it to the carpet. He shuddered as a ghostly hand made contact with his shoulder. And then he dissolved into sobs.

++++

“Appreciate you taking the time, Laura,” said Robbie. He sipped his pint gingerly. _Just one,_ he promised the man who now seemed to live in his head. _Just the one._

Laura smiled slightly, her expression tinged with worry. “Are you all right, Robbie?”

“Do I look like I’ve seen a ghost?”

She sat back in her chair. “Oh. Him.”

His eyes widened. _So I was right. I’m being haunted. And they all…they knew?_ “Who was he?”

“Detective Sergeant James Hathaway.” She sighed, looking away. “I shouldn’t say anything, I really shouldn’t. Jean would have my head on a platter.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly, wary. “He hasn’t done that yet—head on a platter?”

“Ah, no. Is that part of his repertoire?”

“He does have a flair for the classics,” she allowed. “Moans, rattling chains. Odd smells.” She warmed to her topic. “Once he filled the flat with fire and brimstone, sent this fellow, um, Peterson, I think it was, straight back to MI6. No one was sorry to see that man go. Bit of an arse, if you ask me.”

Lewis chuckled. “Sounds like I’ve been missing out on the fun.”

“No rattling chains?”

“Nary a moan. Just a—“ He sighed. “—a quiet concern, more like.”

“He must like you.” She smiled against the lip of her glass.

He rubbed a cheek. “I enjoy the company, actually.”

“Are you lonely, Robbie?”

“Didn’t think so. Till now.”

She reached across the table to squeeze his hand briefly. “Well, since he obviously likes you….”

“Regular bromance we’ve got going, right enough.”

The corner of her mouth quirked up. “He didn’t have a steady—anyone, I suppose. Until we got this case involving a young man who committed suicide in a church. James had been in the seminary—“

“No.”

“Oh, yes. Public school and Cambridge. First in theology. Drops out of the seminary—no one knows why—and takes the accelerated path to police officer. Was working on passing his Inspector’s exam when he caught this case and Jean Innocent allowed him to handle it on his own.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“It seemed like a simple suicide. Other murders followed. She stepped in, trying to help wade through the evidence. Somehow, James was in the prime suspect’s house when it blew up.”

Lewis stared.

Laura sighed. “Jean took leave of absence for six weeks to collect herself.”

“How did his family take it?”

“He didn’t have anyone. Not a soul.”

“That poor man. How long ago was this?”

“Four, no, five years.” She pushed her empty glass to one side. “There was a mortgage on Hathaway’s flat. When it went to auction, Jean and her husband bought it as an investment. It’s been vacant off and on ever since. If you need a place to stay, Robbie—“

“—No, no, I’m fine. I thought I was losing my mind. Good to know my head’s on straight.”

She smiled. “We’ll have to do this again sometime, then.” She rose, shouldering her handbag. “Has he talked to you?”

Lewis looked away. “Not as I’ve noticed.”

“If he does, listen, would you? He never talked much and I always thought if he’d had someone to listen to him, well, he might have been happier. He wasn’t exactly a jovial sort.”

“What sort was he?”

“Sarky, clever. A bit like Morse in some ways.” She touched his shoulder. “You two should get on fine.”

He finished his pint, thought about ordering another, and decided, instead, to go home and get to know his ghost.

++++

“Darling, I’m home.” Lewis announced sarcastically, opening the door without any difficulty at all.

The smell of cigarettes wafted through the room.

“I know you’re there. Should have quit smoking.”

“I’m dead. I should have smoked more and enjoyed it,” said James Hathaway as he faded in. He leaned against the breakfast counter, arms folded. He wore the grey suit, pink tie ensemble.

“Were you a snappy dresser?”

Hathaway nodded, mouth quirked in a smile. “You talked to—“ He seemed to consider his options. “Dr. Hobson.”

“We had a pleasant chat. I only had one drink.”

“I’m impressed.”

Lewis made a face. “Don’t be patronizing.”

“You were seeking my approval.”

“Right. Fine. I was. It was bloody difficult.”

Hathaway stared at him.

A minute passed, then two. “I have all of eternity,” Hathaway warned.

“All right, clever clogs, it wasn’t that difficult.”

“Why?”

“Because of the case! Your case!” Lewis waved a sheaf of papers at him. “Spent all afternoon researching the archives, checking into Will’s murder.”

Hathaway sighed and dropped into the chair across from the couch. “It was a suicide. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But why? What pushed him? Where did he get the gun? Who gave him the bloody gun?”

“I don’t—“

“Don’t you see, man? This case isn’t closed, it isn’t—“

“I don’t fucking want to talk about it!” Dark smoke seemed to billow and circle the room now, the air pulsing with tiny cold flames, impossibly bright. Swirling faster and faster accompanied by a haunting melody that lingered just beyond the reach of memory. Hathaway’s eyes seemed to burn, cold, icy, his voice seemed to shake the room, vibrating the glass. “Drop it, Lewis, drop it now.”

“If Will wasn’t murdered outright, he was pushed to suicide by someone.”

“No.” Tiny flames sparked near the ghost.

“What are you afraid of? Afraid I’ll find the truth, are you? What were you doing in that woman’s house, eh? What were you doing with a suspect in the middle of the night?”

The stone head hit the floor with a crash as the smoke cleared. The room felt instantly clear as if washed by rain.

Lewis looked around, feeling utterly alone.

He glanced at his car keys on the counter. Could run out to a pub, maybe head to the supermarket. He didn’t have anything in, and he did have to eat.

No, he wanted a drink. Needed a drink. _Bloody hell._ “Piece of work, you are,” he stormed at the air. “Don’t want to talk about it. Right. Well, I can guess why. And I’m gonna find out. Got plenty of time, don’t I? Not an eternity, mind, but I’ll do it.”

He went into the bedroom and brought out his old laptop. Couldn’t find the adapter. _Damn thing was a paperweight._ He binned it and grabbed his keys angrily. “This is your damn fault!” he shouted, slamming the door behind him.

++++

“Why does the face have lines in it?” Jack asked, tracing the cracks in the stone head. At five, his grandson was enjoying the first ‘grown up’ adventure of his young life: visiting his granddad while his mum was at a seminar in London.

Lewis sighed, setting the shopping bag on the counter. “Fell off its hook. Had to be mended.” He didn’t mention that he had spent hours trying and failing to run a neat bead of glue along the broken pieces. Didn’t mention how his hands shook at first. Didn’t mention how he threw up over and over, weak as a kitten. Didn’t mention how the cat, Monty, seemed to know what he was going through, seemed to know when he needed something to hold onto so that he wouldn’t find a glass or a bottle.

He hadn’t really been ready to mind the boy, but he couldn’t put Lyn off much longer. Once she got something in her head, she was just like her mum had been.

He smiled fondly at the lad. _Odd how looks skipped a generation._ His hair and eyes reminded him so much of Val. “I’m going to make you a proper dinner tonight. No fish fingers. We’ll have roast chicken.”

“He likes chicken.”

“Monty? Yes, he does.”

“No, the sergeant.”

Bent in front of the fridge, Lewis rose, ignoring the sudden twinge in his back. “Who?”

“The sergeant.”

Lewis wiped his hands on the tea towel tucked into his belt.

Jack was fussing with the remote. It hadn’t worked properly since he got here two days ago. Robbie had been having to read to the lad. Had forgotten how much he enjoyed reading to a child.

The telly suddenly clicked on. “Hey!” Jack beamed. “It’s working!” He jumped onto the couch.

“No jumping on the furniture,” Lewis said quietly, going back in the kitchen. Tomatoes. Lettuce. A cucumber.

Carrots,” said Jack, coming into the tiny kitchen. “He likes carrots and onions, too.”

“Does he?” Lewis swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure what to do, what to think. Been three weeks since the stone head fell. Three long weeks.

He’d learned a lot. Had worked hard on the case.

“He likes you and Monty too. Can we have mashed potatoes, too?”

“Sure,” Lewis started chopping lettuce.

“He says you should gently tear the lettuce.”

“You tell him that if he wants torn lettuce, he can tear it himself.”

Jack giggled. “He’s a ghost, granddad. He can’t tear lettuce.”

“So you made friends with me ghost.” Lewis handed him the lettuce and a bowl.

“Yeah. You should check the chicken, he says.”

“Wash your hands. And if he has anything to say to me, he can tell me himself.”

Jack covered his mouth, his eyes wide. “That’s a bad word,” he confided to the air behind Lewis.

The stink of cigarette smoke filled the kitchen.

“Mind taking that out the back while we the living eat?” Lewis opened the back door. Monty shot out, tail trailing.

The cigarette smell faded.

++++

“Sweet boy, your grandson,” said Hathaway, sitting on the back step. He wore jeans, long sleeved shirt, held a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced up as Lewis binned the rubbish.

“Don’t want him having nightmares,” Lewis warned. “I know a priest, could have you exorcised.”

“How is the good Father….?” Hathaway rolled the lit fag, sending a shower of rainbow-colored sparks across the lawn.

“He’s well. A little concerned, of course, ‘cause he thinks I’m re-opening the inquiry now that I’m back part-time at the nick.”

“You’re not.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

“You lied to him.” Hathaway sounded incredulous. The corner of his mouth curled up. “Good on you.”

Lewis dropped to the step, sitting beside the ghost. It was chilly outside, but it was icy next to the ghost.

 _His ghost._ He smiled to himself.

“You missed me,” Hathaway observed.

“You didn’t go anywhere. Could tell you were about. Thanks for hiding my keys. Appreciate you letting the cat out now and again.”

The ghost looked away, smiling ever so slightly. “Didn’t see why Monty should suffer just because you were flat out on the floor. Feeling better?”

“Yeah. Feels strange.”

“Good strange?”

“Yeah.” Lewis rubbed his mouth. “Glad to be helping out our Lyn. And Jack’s fun, isn’t he?”

“He is. Bit bloodthirsty, though. Thought I was going to clap him in irons.” Hathaway’s voice took a dramatic turn.

“When I picked him up in London, we went to the Tower.”

“And you were afraid I’d give him nightmares.”

“Well, it’s only the Tower.”

Hathaway leaned against Lewis, sending shivers up his spine. “I give you the shivers.”

Lewis looked at his feet. “You do, at that.” He met Hathaway’s eyes, struck by a thought. “’Tis a pity you’re dead.”

The ghost sighed, a soft forlorn sound, and nodded.

++++

Lewis settled Jack on his lap. “Where’d this come from?” He flipped the pages of an old children’s anthology of literature. “It’s new,” he observed. “Despite its age.”

“It’s mine,” Hathaway admitted. He sat in the chair across from them. He crossed his long legs, hands folded on his stomach. He appeared pleased with himself.

“Sergeant Hathaway and me got into the box in the storage shed.”

“So that’s what all that racket was,” Lewis muttered. “Is there a mess out back, then?”

“Oh, no! We cleaned it all up, good and proper, spit pot.”

“Spit spot.” Hathaway smirked.

“Yeah. That.” Jack grinned, bouncing a bit. “You couldn’t see him and he flied things down from the top.”

“Flew,” said Hathaway and Lewis in unison.

“Yeah. That.”

Lewis opened the book. “James Hathaway” was painstakingly written in childish cursive on the flyleaf. A circle of poorly-executed stars surrounded the name. He flipped through the pages, finding a well-worn section.

He showed Jack. “This was the sergeant’s favorite. Know how I can tell?” They’d been playing this detective game ever since Jack arrived.

“It’s all messy.” Jack examined another page. “And there’s—“ He looked at the ghost. “—You like jam.”

The ghost smiled. “I did. I took my book on an adventure. Where do you think I went?”

Jack turned another page. “It got mud on it. And a leaf.”

Lewis grinned at his sergeant, his ghost, sharing the moment. They waited for the lad to figure it out.

“You went to the woods.” Jack cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “Did you run away?” At the ghost’s nod, he continued. “Why?”

“I was your age and I didn’t know what else to do,” said the ghost.

“Mum says to call the police. They always know what to do, right, granddad?”

“Right, laddie. ’The Story of King Arthur and His Knights,’” Lewis began…

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

“ ‘…Who calls to me,” Arthur cried,’ ” read Hathaway quietly.

“Lad’s asleep,” whispered Lewis.

“I know. ‘Tis I…’”

“You’re still reading.”

Hathaway smiled faintly. “You have keen powers of observation, Robbie Lewis. ‘…the lady of the…”

Lewis closed his eyes again, settling into the couch. The weight of the boy was a comfort. To hell with his back. He could listen to the voice of his Sergeant Hathaway all night.

His Sergeant Hathaway.

He smiled against his grandson’s head and hugged the boy close.

++++

“You think my mum will believe me?”

“Doubt it,” said Hathaway, leaning against the wall.

Jack grinned at him. “Do it one last time. Pleeeaaase.”

Hathaway sighed and fell through the wall.

Jack giggled.

“Never did that for me,” tutted Lewis, folding pajamas into the suitcase.

“You never asked.” Hathaway heaved a sigh. “It’s been a pleasure, Jack.” His face fell into a mask.

 _This is how he must have looked when he was alive,_ Lewis realized with a pang.

“Jack. Sergeant Hathaway asked me to give you this.” He gave his grandson a warm hug. “Didn’t want you to leave without a proper goodbye from him.”

The lad grinned at Hathaway, who seemed to blur at the edges before fading away entirely.

Lewis’ shoulder was suddenly, intensely cold, as if a ghostly hand had made contact. And then it was gone.

“Let’s get you back to your mum,” he said to his grandson.

++++

Lewis checked his breath and decided to brush his teeth again. As he stared in the bathroom mirror, his sergeant materialized, wearing a knowing smirk.

“Over-nighting?” Hathaway inquired, picking an imaginary string from Lewis’ shoulder.

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I ask because I care.”

“You ask because you are vicariously living through me.”

“True. I like it when you go out with Dr. Hobson. Your vocabulary becomes multi-syllabic and erudite.”

Lewis made a face. “I’m as bright as the next fellow.”

“Brighter.” Hathaway gave him a genuine smile. “Dr. Hobson is a lucky woman.”

“I’m the lucky one.” Lewis made short work of his teeth, patted his pockets, and gave Hathaway a rakish grin. “Who’d want an old codger like me?”

Hathaway sighed. “Oh, Robbie.”

Lewis shrugged. “Wish me luck.” He squared his shoulders and paused at the door before he opened it. He couldn’t bear to look at the ghost. “Don’t wait up.”

++++

Lewis set the shopping bag on the kitchen counter. He pulled a bottle from the bag and held it up. “It’s just the one.”

“I thought we were past this,” said Hathaway.

“Nice red. Toasting the end of an era. Laura and I. We’re still friends, mind. But no longer as close as we were. Where’s the bottle opener?”

“Tossed it out a few years ago.”

“Have we got a screwdriver?” Lewis rummaged in a kitchen drawer. “Maybe a pair of pliers?”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Hathaway said, dryly. He put his hands in his pockets. “How will that make you feel better, Robbie?”

Lewis sighed. The breakup wasn’t much of a breakup. No tears, no fuss, no hard feelings. He and Laura had started talking about it after that holiday cruise together. Two weeks of enforced closeness and they both knew their relationship wasn’t going anywhere.

He hefted the weight of the bottle in his hand. _New beginning._

Lewis opened the kitchen door, scaring Monty who dashed to stand beside Hathaway. Lewis stood on the doorstep. It was a beautiful afternoon, sunny. He raised the bottle high over his head and smashed it onto the paving stones.

“Now I’m going to have that steak I bought,” he said. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had red meat?”

“It’s not good for you,” warned the ghost.

“Oh, don’t you start.”

++++

Jack’s presence seemed to fill the flat. _He’s tall for a fifteen year old,_ thought Lewis. _Must get it from his dad’s side._ The teen went into the guest room to stow his gear.

“He looks more like Val every time I see him.” Hathaway appeared near the stone head on the bookcase.

“Our Lyn asked me to talk with him about applying to university. He’s slacking off.”

Hathaway made a non-committal noise.

“And there’s a girl.”

“Can’t have that. Women will be the death of him.” Hathaway smirked.

“Well, you would know.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jack came back into the living room, his arms full of electronics. “Hey, Sergeant Hathaway, good to almost see you.” He crouched beside the television, hooking up cables. “I come bearing gifts.”

“Virgil said to fear the Greeks... even when they come bearing gifts.” Lewis’ tone was light. At Hathaway’s surprised look, he added, “Something Morse said.”

“Virgil’s boring.” Jack picked up the game controllers as he rose.

“We thought we’d go to the Ashmolean this time, Jack.”

“Yeah, okay. First, you gotta see this.” Jack flopped in the center of the couch and offered game controllers to his granddad and the ghost.

“Might work better if you moved over to the end there. Gets a bit chilly sitting next to the sergeant. I’m more used to it.” Lewis pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and spread it to cover his lap and shoulder.

“Okay. Hey—where’s Monty?”

“Passed away.”

“Aww. I’m sorry, granddad.”

Lewis sighed as Monty materialized and jumped onto his lap.

“Wow.” Jack petted the cat gingerly. “He’s like ice.”

Hathaway scooped the cat into his lap.

Lewis watched the ghost petting the ghost cat. There were too many dead people in his life. Death at work, death at home. Maybe he should listen to Lyn, move to Manchester. Leave the dead behind.

Hathaway gave him an inquiring look.

 _Who am I kidding,_ thought Lewis. _I can never leave. If he goes, I go._ He gave a slight shake of his head. “Well, this isn’t a shooter game, is it?”

“Nope. You said no shooters, no fires, no explosions. So I looked and looked and then I found this. It’s a vintage re-do.”

Jack started the game.

Lewis heard the familiar tones. “PacMan? You brought PacMan?”

Hathaway chuckled.

Jack grinned. “Yeah. I thought you’d like it because it has ghosts.”

++++

“This should be a full stop; the sentence following is not a speech tag, so it’s an independent sentence.” Hathaway set down his pen. “I know I’ve told you that before.”

Lewis took a deep breath, letting it out in a huff. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think writing a book would be such hard work.” He stared bleary-eyed at the laptop screen where he was making edits.

Hathaway folded his hands on the stack of papers on the table. “It’s a good book, Robbie. Each section is meticulously planned and the research is impeccable.”

“You did the research.”

Hathaway smirked. “And that is why it is such a good book.”

Lewis stretched and yawned. “Jean liked it the first draft. Laura thought it needed some drama. Bring in the people, the victims more, she said.”

“Having a bit of witness dialogue at the beginning of each chapter to balance out the exposition is an excellent idea.”

“You sound like an editor.”

Hathaway floated the red pen to the laptop and tapped it. “We agreed that paragraph had to go.” He folded his arms. “It’s a good introductory textbook to the concepts of investigation and forensics. It’s solid, old-fashioned police procedure.”

“Old-fashioned.” Lewis snorted. “Kiss of death in publishing.”

“I do know about the kiss of death,” Hathaway said, dryly. “This isn’t it.”

“And you promise that we’ll include the Phoenix case in the next book.”

Hathaway cocked his head and gave a small nod.

++++

“So you want to buy the flat?” Jean handed Robbie a mug of tea before sitting down. They were in her office at the police station. “Why now? You’ve been living there for almost fifteen years. We’ve only increased the rent twice. It’s not—him, is it?” Her voice trailed off.

“It’s time I was settling down.”

“Fifteen years in one spot isn’t settled. I see.” She sipped her tea. “I thought you’d be off to Manchester to be with your family now that you’ve finally retired.”

“They have their lives. I have mine. I just got the advance on my book. Thought buying the flat would be the best use of the money.”

“Well, then we’ll have the property appraised and start on the paperwork. I’m delighted you’re staying in Oxford. You have a reputation among the younger coppers for doing that first lecture on investigative procedures. It’s only once a quarter and they do look forward to it. As do I.”

“Every solid investigation begins with observation and diligence.”

“Sounds like a quote.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Oh. Nearly forgot.” Lewis set aside his tea. “The book.”

He and Hathaway had checked and re-checked every fact, every case note. He’d memorized the canned patter from his agent. “There’s a simple statistical tool for ballistics and splatter on the CD that comes with the text. The publisher’s website has educational links for fingerprint analysis, chromatography, simple DNA.” _But nothing on the Phoenix case,_ he wanted to add. _Not yet._

Jean beamed at him. “Very impressive, Robbie. Did you choose the cover art?”

“Ah, no. No. The publisher.” He made a face. The cover photo showed a group of coppers in scene suits gathered around a body next to a river. “It’s a bit sensationalized.”

Hathaway had been so disgusted by the cover he’d threatened to haunt the publisher. Lewis felt guilty claiming the work for his own—so much of the book was James’ work.

“Is it signed?” Jean opened the book excitedly, reading the inscription. Her jaw dropped.

The book was signed by Robert Lewis.

And James Hathaway.

++++

Lewis set the takeaway on the coffee table. Spicy lamb vindaloo. He settled back onto the couch, pulling the blanket to his lap and shoulder in a practiced motion. It was late afternoon, an unseasonably warm day. The flat was like a refrigerator. The windows were open to let the outside air in.

Monty sat on the windowsill, watching the street outside. He stretched out, his ghostly head on his semi-transparent paws. He gave a soft, sad meow. He missed being outside.

Hathaway appeared beside Lewis. “You’ll have nightmares, eating that.”

“Have ‘em now,” said Lewis. “I see ghosts.” He took a bite of naan.

“Funny.”

“Can’t Monty go out?”

Hathaway sighed. A poignant sweetness seemed to fill the air, almost as if his speech was fading into emotion alone. “Monty’s stuck here now, too. I used to be able to go out. Take a walk. Visit my grave. Not anymore.”

“Oh. Be right back.” Lewis got up and went into the kitchen where he’d left the other bag. He’d forget his head if it wasn’t firmly attached. He’d bought flowers while he was waiting for the food. He rummaged for scissors and trimmed off the stems so that the stems would fit into a water glass. _There._

He knew James didn’t much care anymore about birthdays. Usually made a joke about not growing any older. But Lewis liked remembering.

Liked the idea of honoring the man. Cherishing the friendship.

He set the flowers on the coffee table.

“They’re lovely. Thank you, Robbie.”

Robbie waited for the joke. Since none was forthcoming, he sat down, covering himself up with the blanket. Monty jumped on his lap. Lewis reached behind a cushion and put on a glove to pet the ghost cat.

Hathaway pressed against his side, a line of ice from knee to shoulder.

“It’s your birthday, James. You get to pick what we watch on telly.”

“Would you mind if we listened to old records?” Hathaway smiled. The air around him seemed to sparkle.

Lewis stopped petting the cat and took James’ hand. It was cool against the woolen glove.

They held hands, music forgotten.

++++

“If we’re going to write about the Phoenix, we can’t start with Will’s death. We have to start with Will’s life.” Hathaway looked away. “I owe him that much.”

“Do you see Will? I mean, in the afterlife?”

“No. It doesn’t work like that. Souls move on.”

“But you haven’t. Why not?”

“Well, there’s Monty. There’s you.”

“Our Lyn keeps on about me moving house to Manchester.”

The outline of Hathaway didn’t move, but it was as if he became translucent. A sheer watercolor.

Lewis opened his laptop, trying not look at the ghost. “I told her that she’d have to buy my flat. And that she’d never be able to sell it because it’s haunted.”

Hathaway solidified again, a smile playing around his mouth. “Did she believe you?”

“Oh, yeah. When Jack was little he told her all about you, falling through walls.” Lewis grinned mischievously. “Did you really prance through the guest room with your head on a platter?”

“Prance? No. It was more of a silly walk.” Hathaway leaned forward. “I could show you.”

“After we get down the particulars of the Phoenix case.”

A swath of frigid air moved through the room. “I’d rather prance about with my head on a platter.”

Lewis reached out for the ghost’s hand. “I know, lad, I know,” he said gently. “But the story’s going to be told by someone. Wouldn’t you rather do the telling?”

++++

Robbie Lewis rolled his shoulders, hearing his spine crack. Getting to be hard to sit hunched over like this, bent over his laptop. He rubbed his eyes and re-focused on the manuscript in front of him. This second book was far more difficult than the first. It wasn’t simply that he was forgetful.

It was the Phoenix case.

Two years into the second book. Everything else was finished. _Every bloody thing._ He’d even managed to get an interview with Adam Tibbitt, who had been a witness on the last case profiled in the book. The Drew case, it was. Tibbitt was now a doctor—and even the doctor had managed to make time to answer questions.

James Hathaway continued to drag his ghostly feet on parts of the Phoenix.

It was just so important to Lewis that he get it exactly right. He owed it to James. Had promised.

“You really think I should say it that way? Sounds dry. Passive voice.” Lewis glanced at his would-be sergeant, who materialized back into a solid shape. They’d discovered turning pages and using a pen was more easily accomplished for Hathaway when he was transparent.

James very deliberately set down the pen he was using. “That is how it happened. Arson investigators determined the fire had been set.”

“You burned alive, man!”

James looked away.

“You can’t help but have some emotional reaction to it,” Lewis insisted. He swallowed, hard. It hurt to think of the man in front of him being in pain.

“If you think that, why do you keep bringing it up, Robbie? How can I tell you about pain when I don’t remember it? I barely remember anything corporeal anymore. Can barely hold onto a pen or turn a sheet of paper.”

“Haven’t smoked in ages,” said Lewis, sadly.

“It’s hard to recall what I looked like.” Hathaway picked up the pen, trying to fiddle with it, only to have it drop from his hand to the table.

“Your handwriting’s rubbish,” Lewis observed. “But you’re all right. Not much worse for wear given what you’ve been through.” Over the years, he had learned to ignore the blurred edges and the way James seemed to melt from time to time.

“And you call me transparent.”

“Oi! Personal thoughts!”

James smiled kindly.

That was the one thing—his smile had never faded. He was a bit like the Cheshire Cat. His eyes and his smile were constant, brighter, even, than ever. Maybe he was blurring because he was growing brighter with the passage of time.

“It’s the tracks of your tears.” Hathaway smirked.

“Right.” Lewis didn’t want to admit how close that came to being the truth. What would he do without James? He’d wondered that before, when he and Laura had been seeing each other. _When was that, then, ten, fifteen years before?_

“Eighteen years ago.” James supplied.

Lewis nodded, suddenly feeling very tired. “Got an email from Jack. He’s got a girlfriend.”

“Jack has a wife. They’ve been married for two years.”

“Right.”

“Let’s get you to bed, Robbie.”

“Always love it when you say that.”

James chuckled. “You’re a dirty old man.”

“You’re a dirty young one.”

“I was never a dirty young man. I—“ James sighed. “Shall I tell you again? What happened that night?”

“You were burned alive in the suspect’s flat. I know.”

“You don’t know why.”

“I respect your privacy.”

James laughed outright.

_It sounded like—bells._

“I loved the bells of Oxford,” James began, leading Robbie into the bedroom. “During the course of the case a man—“

“JonJo.”

“Yes. JonJo was making a video. He had known me before I was a police officer. Asked me what I loved. The bells, I told him. I think it was only true thing I said during the entire investigation. I said that I didn’t know Will.”

“But you did. You loved him.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Oh, James. It’s just like I know why you were in that young woman’s flat. You didn’t go there to question her. You went there because she was a young woman, you were a young man, and you were hoping you weren’t gay.”

James faded from the room, and then faded back in again. “I’d never—“

“I know.”

“But how did you know?”

Lewis sat on the edge of the bed, not able to move. “Have to get to that last chapter again in the morning.”

James nodded, helping him to put his feet on the bed.

“No pajamas?”

“You won’t be needing them,” James said, tenderly. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against Lewis’ forehead, a drink of cold water on a hot day.

++++

Lewis sprang from the bed with an energy he hadn’t felt in years, and thought he’d hit the wall…

…but he went right through it.

A slow, eager smile spread over his features.

“James!” He ran into the living-room. “James! I’m dead!”

He saw a shimmer close to the stone head, that damned stone head, and he reached out.

He gathered the shimmer and the words and the feelings into his arms and pulled all of it close to where his remembered-heart still beat.

“James Hathaway, don’t you leave me. I didn’t come so far just to have you go.”

“Too many evenings watching _**Lord of the Rings**_.” Hathaway stared at him, growing more solid by the second. The corner of his mouth curled up.

Robbie reached out a fingertip and touched the corner of James’ mouth. “I remember the way your mouth would do that before you started to fade.” Robbie’s face fell. “What do I say to Val? I can’t—she’s—oh, she’s moved on, hasn’t she?”

“Years ago, as earthly beings measure time.” Hathaway smiled kindly. “She was needed elsewhere.”

“But you waited.”

Hathaway shrugged. “It was only a moment.”

“You once told me, ‘If you go, I go.’ Did you mean that?”

Hathaway smiled slightly, obviously pleased. “I’ve said a great many things over the years. Why did you remember that?”

“Just thought it sounded good. Getting up and going. Now that I can, and all. We can leave, yeah? Go anywhere, anytime?”

“Yep. Like the TARDIS.”

“Then I reckon we should go and visit Jack. Give him a little bit of a scare. Rattle a few chains. I want to show him I can fall through a wall. Think we should go, then?”

“I do.”

The front door opened for them onto a path of unimaginable radiance. A ghostly cat mewed and followed after them, tail high in the air.

The stone head chuckled and collapsed onto itself, dissolving into a million grains of sand.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the 1947 movie, _The Ghost and Mrs. Muir_


End file.
